


Best Friend

by TheWhiteLily



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character perspective on a canon scene, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Friendship, Gen, POV Sherlock Holmes, Tasty tasty eyeballs, oh sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-12-25 11:51:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12035319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWhiteLily/pseuds/TheWhiteLily
Summary: John tells Sherlock he's his best...





	Best Friend

**Author's Note:**

> For fan_flashworks "Best"

“No, it  _is_!” John cut him off, pointing a warning finger that, given the tenuous nature of the forgiveness Sherlock had tricked him into granting, made Sherlock shut his mouth immediately. “It  _is_ , and I want to be up there with the  _two_  people that I love and care about most in the world.”

“Yes,” agreed Sherlock, deciding it would probably be better if he stopped trying to add to the conversation.

“So, Mary Morstan…” prompted John.

Apparently, he thought Sherlock might need a reminder of his fiancee’s name. As though Sherlock would have forgotten _that_ when it seemed John had finally—and most likely by accident given his previous abysmal discrimination on such matters—happened upon a woman who didn’t bore him to tears.

“Yes,” agreed Sherlock again.

The problem was that John didn’t _have_ any other friends. At least he hadn’t. Oh, Lestrade would have kept in touch while Sherlock was away, and Mike Stamford had always been so keen to recapture his glory days as a student that he would be instantly on board with any overture, no matter how long John went without contacting him.

John _hadn’t_ had any other friends. Not when he’d lived with Sherlock. But Sherlock had been gone, and John’s life—as Mycroft had tried to warn him, _damn him_ —had moved on. He'd found a woman he loved; a fiancée who loved him back even _after_ meeting Sherlock. There could have been others, too, who'd recognised John's value while Sherlock hadn't been in a position to notice.

“And…” John prompted, then looked away, apparently frustrated with Sherlock’s ignorance of his current life.

As though they weren’t both perfectly aware at this point that the image in Sherlock’s head during his absence—that of John patiently awaiting his return, a return that would leave him overwhelmed and overjoyed at the realisation of his miracle—had been hopelessly naive. All his other acquaintances whom Sherlock had known hated John, deep down: the microaggressions were obvious. Fools. All except, of course, for—

“ _You_.”

Sherlock’s focussed, coherent thoughts shattered.

 _He_ was John’s—

John, while I’m flattered—

—and surprised, because one of the—

John had been on to him to get some cards printed—

Perhaps he should look up Sebastian to see if he had any little problems he—

—this is unexpected, a somewhat… daunting request. I never expected—

—business cards, with the email and the blog address, which they could give to—

Not his blog, why did no one ever realise that  _Sherlock’s_  blog was the one with the more useful—

—I’ve never been anyone’s—

—first—

—information on it, not like John’s romanticised accounts that—

—best—

—needed solved: ‘colleagues’ indeed. That would show the smarmy little—

—‘humanised him’ as though he needed humanising, wasn’t he obviously a—

_Freak, he’ll always be a freak, I don’t know how you can trust him!_

—friend before, and I’m not certain—

— _anything_ before. Was there a— 

For god’s sake he wasn’t prepared for this, Sherlock wasn’t—

_Don’t make people into heroes, John._

—things Sherlock had learned about interpersonal relationships was the—

 _Don’t be childish, Sherlock. Why would it matter that the other children don_ _’_ _t_   _‘like’ you?_

—that I can. Of course, if you’re sure, I’ll do my—

What _was_ it that he wanted Sherlock to—

—rareness of true reciprocity; John, of course—

_Put the wind up everybody. We hated him._

—bastard, he didn’t matter, of course he didn’t matter—

—best—

—clients with “Sherlock Holmes: Consulting Detective and—

—being his _only_ friend, was obviously _Sherlock’s—_

—but as recent events have shown, the task is one that I find personally—

—cut out to be a friend at all, because he hadn’t even realised the last time John had—

—actually _do_ as his—

_Do you have any idea what you’ve done to him?_

—Best—

—challenging. I find it gratifying that you would trust me with—

—trusted him, Sherlock had hurt him so badly he’d grown the—

_Now, you let me grieve, hmm? How could you do that._

—only John mattered because John was his—

—the responsibility of—

— _worst_ —

—Friend”, would that be appropriate?  Because he _was_ , apparently, John’s—

—best—

—ceremony to confirm it? Or a test? Surely there was something a—

—best—

—being your—

—human? John obviously thought so, if Sherlock was his—

—best—

Was John really so desperate that Sherlock was his only—

—best—

—no, _not_ his only, John wasn’t Sherlock, he had many friends, or thought he did, but _Sherlock_ was _his_ —

—best—

—best—

— _best_ …

Sherlock took a breath, finally marshalling his thoughts onto a single track, and frowned at John. He wanted to be very clear about this.

Because this,  _this_ was… quite extraordinary. 

“So, in fact,” he said carefully, “you—you mean…”

John’s expression had changed, developed that tolerant cast of amusement it got when, in his opinion, Sherlock was being unbearably slow about something.

“Yes,” prompted John.

But John was _his_ , after all. Sherlock had just never imagined he might be…

“I’m your…”

John pulled back, waiting.

“… best…” Sherlock tried out the shape of the word on his tongue, the way it wanted to flow on to the next one without stopping.

“… man,” said John, running out of patience.

“… friend?” came out of Sherlock’s mouth, just a little too late to stop it.

John’s mouth dropped open a little, his face shocked and perhaps hurt.

Sherlock frowned: apparently he’d got it wrong. Although really, what else did John expect with making Sherlock play guessing games to rub in all the things he didn’t know any more about—

“Yeah, ’course you are,” John said, before Sherlock’s brain could take another detour into incoherence. “ _’Course_.”

He stared at Sherlock, as though this was an obvious fact that he’d somehow neglected to mention at any point during the last four years; as though the last two years and all that had happened in them had had no impact on that obvious fact at all.

“You’re my best friend,” John repeated simply.

Best friend, sang Sherlock’s thoughts in unison. He was John’s best friend.

Blindly, he groped for his tea.  Even a stewed, seared eyeball, it turned out, couldn’t spoil the taste of it.

**Author's Note:**

> Somewhat related: please admire the [eyeball hot chocolate melts](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/thewhitelily/6391104/8005/8005_original.jpg) my niece made for my birthday last year. :D


End file.
